


F-words

by idanit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bedsharing, Crowley's pov, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Good Omens Celebration, Good Omens Celebration 2020, Ineffability, Kissing, Linguistic silliness, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Talking, discussion of time, discussion of vocabulary, effability, literally just dialogue except words are hard, more of a marriage suggestion than a marriage proposal, non-explicit communication porn, prompt: unexpected, references to having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24001249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit
Summary: To fraternize, to fornicate. Their vocabulary receives some updates.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 55
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	F-words

Crowley’s left shoulderblade is tingling, which means that Aziraphale has been staring at it for some time.

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

He waits.

“It’s nothing.”

And—

There’s a rustle of fabric as Aziraphale shifts a little. “It’s just that. To think that a mere century and a half ago I’ve been worried about the two of us fraternizing, and now I’m completely unconcerned when we… fornicate.”

They are lying in Aziraphale’s recently acquired bed and not technically fornicating at the moment.

Crowley rubs sleep from his eyes, turns over to face him and sighs. “Nobody says it like that anymore. We really need to bring you to the XXI century, angel. Was that what they called it in the gentlemen’s club?”

Aziraphale flushes, worries at the hem of the black-and-red striped covers. “No.”

“So. First of all, we’re not fraternizing. Never have been.”

“I know. We’re friends.”

“Yes, yes, we are.” It still gives Crowley a spark of visceral pleasure every time Aziraphale says it aloud. He wants to flick that lighter again and again, a nervous tick. He busies one of his hands with Aziraphale’s exposed forearm, running his fingers over the golden hairs.

“I’m sorry that I said otherwise.”

“It’s alright. I’m sorry I said I don’t need you.”

“Already forgiven.”

A bus drives by outside the window, left slightly ajar to let in fresh air. It’s early autumn and Crowley already mourns the loss of sun and heat.

“We’re friends.” He looks at Aziraphale expectantly. “And?”

Aziraphale’s hums meditatively.

“Remember, XXI century,” Crowley grins.

This earns him a weary look. “We fuck, dear, don’t think I can’t say it.”

“How delightfully forward of you.”

“—however, I rather think the more suitable expression would be: making love.”

Crowley winces and waves his free hand dismissively. “Nananah, no. You mean: having sex.”

Aziraphale ignores him. “We’re finally free to say it, you know. No sides, no Armageddon.” He throws him a meaningful glance. “XXI century.”

There is nothing for it now; Crowley slithers upwards and buries his head into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He counts their breaths until they fall in sync, like they always do. Aziraphale strokes his hair, patient.

“Fine. Fine. I love you,” he mumbles into his sternum. Takes another shaky breath.

“I love you too, you foul fiend,” Aziraphale replies at once. Crowley looks up to meet his eyes and finds that they have grown serious. “I think I have loved you, and will love you forever.”

“Hgh.” Crowley returns to the safe space of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Really, is this necessary. “Yh, I don’t think we have that. There will be another one, you know.”

“We will stop it again.”

Crowley snorts. “That trip to Hell must have done wonders for your confidence. Wish I could say the same thing about Heaven. May I remind you our plan actually failed?”

“Oh, only the first one, with Warlock. We did some brilliant stuff later on.”

“Face it, angel, we were just lucky.”

Aziraphale draws a non-committal line on Crowley’s back. “Yes, perhaps. I do feel lucky.”

What is he drawing? It feels like snakes, but good.

“For the forseeable future, then,” he whispers into Crowley’s ear.

“Okay, yeah. This works.” Crowley smiles, happy, still so foolishly happy, lowercase fallen, absolutely gone, smitten into oblivion; he’s never felt as demonic as nowadays and they kiss, a bit. “Let’s hope we will get a new prophet, then.”

Aziraphale pauses. “Do you really?”

“What?” 

“Hope to know. Get a new set of instructions.” 

Crowley opens his eyes, slightly taken aback, and pulls himself more upright and away until he can focus on Aziraphale’s features, since there’s something happening there he wants to see.

“Well, Agnes did literally save us from dying. Don’t you think a few lines of prophecy can go a long way?”

Aziraphale wiggles a bit and sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“But?”

“It’s just that we did pretty well with the unknowable. We did well precisely because it was unknowable. Heaven and Hell were so sure of knowing, it was all written after all, even we thought we have things under control for so long. Do you think Warlock would make a good Antichrist? One as good as Adam? We won because we didn’t know the plan, not the two of us, not our previous employers.”

Crowley squints into those beautiful, beautiful eyes, but doesn’t let himself get distracted, and tries to wake himself all the way up the way he would banish alcohol from his bloodstream.

“You’re not making any sense. We also won precisely because we deciphered Agnes’s cryptic little message from a piece of paper. Unless you were fine with the whole hellfire thing. Should have told me, save us the trouble.”

“It’s not funny, Crowley.”

“Yeah, it really isn’t.”

They stay quiet for a while. Crowley wraps his arms around his knees, still partially tangled in the sheets, and regards Aziraphale passively from the middle of the bed. The angel’s propped up against the headboard, hoarding the pillows and looking vaguely ill at ease, which won’t do.

“You know what’s the real difference between the effable and the ineffable?” Crowley says.

“Hm?”

“You can eff the effable, but you cannot eff the ineffable.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow.

“Yes, that’s grammar for you. What do you mean?”

“We’re still here because Heaven and Hell didn’t want to fuck up the Ineffable Plan. And also because we had a nice step-by-step manual by one handy witch. What Heaven and Hell don’t seem to be able to accept is that the Ineffable Plan is literally unfuckable by the simple fact that it can’t be set down in writing and understood.”

“Are you suggesting that Agnes’ prophecies were some kind of Effable Plan?”

“Nice and Accurate, as opposed to Vague and Secret. Don’t you prefer that?”

“What about Saint John? He wrote things down.”

“What about him? He only got some bits right. The future is in the witches, not the apostoles, I tell you.”

“Well, there aren’t any apostoles anymore,” Aziraphale says, like the fussy nit-picker he is.

“That was just the Great Plan, anyway. I think we’ve estabilished we’re not fans.”

Aziraphale bows his head to the side, conceding the point.

“But we didn’t eff the effable.”

“Do you believe in free will?”

“Why, of course. It’s not a question of believing, that’s the entire point of the entire unpleasant apple tree business, you, of all people, surely–”

“Yes, but what about us?”

“...I like to.”

“I like to, too. Which is why I genuinely, sincerely believe that there was a very real possibility of us fucking it up, prophet or no prophet.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to digest it and it seems to sit heavy in his stomach. Crowley wants to take him out to sushi. 

“The alternative outcome doesn’t really bear thinking about. But, but that’s exactly why you should be more optimistic about the next big one.”

“I think I just implied the exact opposite thing, angel.”

“No, think about it. Heaven and Hell have nothing up their sleeves, no God’s plan to lean on. God Herself is—regrettably, I’d say, though I’m sure you won’t agree—silent these days, which is generally hard to follow by word. And we have the humans. We just have to keep any future witches close to our chest, so to say.”

“What if there won’t be any witches,” Crowley says, because he can’t pass up on a good wrench to throw into wishful reasoning.

“Then at least Heaven and Hell are no better off than we are.”

“So we both have nothing and it’s just a very boring game of poker where we all sit around in sleeveless tops and no one cheats?”

Aziraphale visibly shudders at the mental image.

“Lord forbid—well. I hope not, and I’m almost afraid you’re going to pressure me into updating my wardrobe right after my vocabulary.”

Crowley bares his teeth threateningly. “Here’s a thought.”

They lapse into silence again. It’s easy, being silent together, after almost alle has been sayed and many things have been done. Dust swirls lazily in the overcast light of the afternoon that must be tipping from early into late; the bookshop opening hours and Crowley’s sleep schedule haven’t been this arbitrary in a while. He gravitates back towards Aziraphale, wrapped in the designer duvet covers that Crowley has miracled up a while ago and which stayed, clashing terribly with the little bedside table à la Louis XIV. It warms him to see that. Lounging against Aziraphale’s stomach puts him on eye level with a hideous songbird tchotchke, so he lets his eyes droop.

The lift trip up to his Mayfair flat takes around ten seconds and by the time you’re there, the double glazing makes sure to drown out any remaining sound. Here, the street is almost in the room: people coming, people going. The ebb and flow peaks around six p.m. and quiets down in the small hours. Crowley thinks of the inescapable push and pull of the sea he hasn’t seen in a while; maybe they’ll take a drive some day or other.

He can tell Aziraphale is thinking of picking up a book from one of the piles in the room; it’s something about his fingers. But Crowley isn’t done, not quite. There’s a thread to the discussion they could grab, but haven’t.

“Sooo. Where do you draw the line?”

“The line?”

“You welcome some updates, but not others.”

“I place great faith in the value of first editions, my dear. Even if they have to be rebound sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been thinking…” Aziraphale is looking at him with rapt attention. It’s still raw, every time without sunglasses on, but forget sunglasses, he loves it. No side glances. No sides. “That fornication thing.”

“Yes? I said it doesn’t bother me.”

“Wow.” Crowley raises his eyebrows. “A flatterer, you are.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Crowley, there’s literally nothing else I’d rather be doing right now than lying here with you, all.” He waves his hands. 

“Naked?”

“Lovely. Conversational. You can dress up if you’re cold, you know.”

“Nah. And here I wanted to take you out for some food.”

“I’m sure it can be arranged at a later time, if you’re so eager.”

“Anyway.” He juts out a finger at Aziraphale’s chest. “Don’t derail me. I was going for a thing here.”

“Pray tell.”

Crowley takes and holds a breath for a second, and then—here goes. “It’s about being unmarried, right?”

“Fornication? Well, yes. Heaven has generally frowned upon this sort of thing and I suppose my vocabulary is still rather... heavenly.” He looks over at Crowley, suddenly unsure. “Wait, are _you_ bothered by it? Sins are usually your side’s—well, they used to be—”

“Oh, please. I’m not _bothered_. Just. I’ve thought about it and—if you think about it.” His mouth is dry, but he presses on. “There’s another way to bring this whole thing into the XXI century.”

Aziraphale is silent and still, but not paralysed—more like those small hours in the morning, waiting. Their breathing is in sync again. Does he know that? Did he hear it?

“Since we’ve been mostly looking like men recently, you know.”

“But that’s… for humans. That’s such an earthly thing.”

“It’s that free will, angel.” Be clear. Say the words. “Will you?”

The moment stretches, stretches, and doesn’t break. Maybe he shouldn’t have been clear at all. It’s not like he has thought about it much before today, so he can go back to not thinking about it tomorrow, no problem.

“Sorry, um.” He puffs out a laugh and stretches the tension away, arms somewhere beyond the table.

“You know I don’t like it when you do that,” Aziraphale says at length, his voice cross, and ah, so this is what it’s about, the insufferable bastard. Crowley sits up from his lap to look him in the eye.

“I’m not doing that. I haven’t done that for ages, and will you ever let that one time in Prussia go? It was for a lark, and you liked it, and you know it.”

Aziraphale lowers his eyes. “Sorry. Of course. Sorry, I’m just on edge.”

“‘S okay,” Crowley says softly.

“Then… I guess I won’t thwart you.”

“You know you’re still terrible at saying a straightforward yes to me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes” like “ _yes_ ” or yes like–?”

“Both.”

“Oh.”

Crowley sighs and deflates into a boneless heap. That was quite a bit of lighter flicking. He thought he would lose his grip and burn his fingers for a minute, but Aziraphale is smiling gently into the middle distance, and has Crowley just asked him to–? Huh.

“I wonder, though,” Aziraphale says dreamily.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Does this even mean anything, for us? It’s not like it changes much. I suppose we could have a little celebration, if you’d like, and—oh! Crowley, would you like a ring?”

Crowley hasn’t thought about that at all.

“Ugm.”

Aziraphale fumbles about the table and pulls out his winged signet from underneath an unsteady stack of books. “I know you don’t usually wear them. But it’s here if you want it.” He flashes it before Crowley’s eyes, holding it out in two of his fingers like a trinket. The only thing he’s missing is the eyeliner moustache, but Crowley is never drawing that again.

“Okay. Sure.” He watches as Aziraphale puts it on for him. Somehow, it doesn’t even need to be adjusted. “I’ll–I’ll get you a snake one.”

“Gold, not silver, please.”

Crowley splutters. “Excuse me, I didn’t get a say. You don’t get a say.” It’s so going to be silver.

“I do, actually. And you as well.” He’s still holding his hand, and Crowley’s still looking at the inexplicably misplaced wings on his finger, enclosed in Aziraphale’s soft grip. This afternoon sure took a turn.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps. “You’re my fiancé now!” He looks as if he’s about to take a first bite of his wedding cake, or so Crowley hopes, at least. His own face is doing something, too.

“Well, uh. Um. There you have it, then, the change—’s linguistic, social. Very earthly. Suits you.”

They slide down against the pillows, almost horizontal, and Crowley would listen to the three people outside the window arguing about parking spaces, or some delivery, except he immediately tunes it out when he feels more than hears Aziraphale’s voice, a rumble in his throat.

“I’m grateful for effable things,” he says.

“Yeah? Like…?”

“Mhm.”

“...you might need to say them.”

“I already did, many times.”

“Again? Maybe I’ve forgotten.”

“It’s you, dear.”

“What?”

Aziraphale waits for him to look up, bubbly with an unreleased giggle, his eyes wide as if he was sharing a secret, and whispers: “You’re very F-able right now.”

Which is too much.

“How-how can you sssay that with a straight face.” Crowley groans and throws himself on the other side of the bed. “Where did you even hear that, I regret talking language with you.”

He can sense the angel’s impish smile behind him; something to do with the impish part, maybe, or maybe it’s just that he’s _the_ angel.

“Only, it’s such good fun.”

Aziraphale moves to curl up around him and Crowley turns over some 270 degrees in his embrace, all spine. He digs his fingers into Aziraphale’s side and slowly licks his cheek. Everything bears the scent nowadays, but there’s nothing quite like a first-tongue experience.

Aziraphale draws back.

“Just one more thing.”

“Hm?”

“No sleeveless tops for me. I’m very serious about this.”

Crowley nuzzles his nose. “I can live with that. No top at all suits you fine.”

Aziraphale chuckles. It’s all so stupid, really, those human games, this back and forth. Idiotic. Crowley can’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing right now either. 

“Well. For the time being, at least,” Aziraphale says and smiles into his lips, their teeth clinking together. It’s been a bit bumpy, the start of this century, but the future is looking fucking fantastic and there’s nothing Crowley can do about it, so he opens his arms.


End file.
